She Hates It
by Fallen Ark Angel
Summary: Mirajane likes Laxus. A lot. But there is one thing she hates. A lot. - One-shot.


His coat smelled like cigar smoke and Mirajane hated it.

It reminded her of the bar and work and while she loved Fairy Tail, couldn't imagine her life in any other place-

But that wasn't true, was it?

Because she could imagine herself in a thousand other places, sometimes, doing all sorts of other things. When she was young, her dreams were to be come one of the strongest wizards in the world. And then, when she felt her powers leave her, she found this channeled through a new dream; to become the best singer/songwriter in the all of Fiore. And then modeling came along and that was fine, but oh, here's a seven year gap that's super hard to explain and, well, the bar isn't so bad, is it?

Is it?

It is to smell, at least, and Laxus' coat reeked of it.

Or at least something like it.

Because he wasn't around to much, was he?

He was always off, gone on S-Class jobs or just long sabbaticals, ones that he had to undertake alone a lot of the time, even, much to the disappointment of the Thunder Legion and at least, sometimes, maybe...her too.

But on those jobs and sabbaticals, he found himself smoking and drinking somewhere, clearly, because booze was infused with the fabric of his coat as well, no matter how many times she washed it, let it dry in the coolest of breezes, hoping the scent of her backyard would overtake the repugnance.

It never did though. Nothing ever would.

He was unbothered by the scent. And even more so of her attempts to detach it. Laxus was amused almost, maybe, and would admit to as much with a grin. Not his snarky, mean one. Or the leering, snide one. No. It was a different one, she found, that he gave to her in those moments. Only her.

Laxus didn't smile often. He wasn't an expressionless person by any imagination, but his scale tipped far more in the disappointed or disinterested range. But something about her insistence, her annoyance, about something so silly, it just made him feel…

Joy, maybe, she thought.

Maybe.

He liked to tease her with it, anyways. When they were out, laying it over her shoulders and remarking something to the affect that he wanted her to have it, to be warmed by it, because he knew, oh, Laxus Dreyar knew that she couldn't deny that, couldn't give up a moment like that, and it was just so aggravating.

Or how he causally toss it on the bed, real casual like, oh, the causal approach to it all, what gall, what absolute gall, throwing that coat over the bed when he left. Not out of town, no, he'd take it then, but just when he left for the evening, off to do...whatever it was he did in the evening, and he'd expect her to cuddle up in it, in his absence. To treasure it. The way he did. To wear it, when she awoke in the morning. When she left for work. All the way to the guildhall, until he arrived, usually much later, so he collect it once more. Only to restart the cycle again on another night.

What gall. Casual causality.

One day, she deemed, every single night he left it there, with her, in her bed, his coat, his most prized possession, that she would leave it behind. At home. Rather than wear the thing up there. To the guild. Or shrug it off her shoulders, even, when they were out. When he placed it there, as if he were the one doing her a favor. By putting his disgusting, filthy old coat over her nice, new one. She'd slip right out of it and then what? What grin would he have then, what amusement would he find, when the game wasn't so easy. So rewarding.

Who would grin then?

Who would be amused?

But each and every time he placed it there, on her slender shoulders, and claimed he wanted her to warm up, or when he tossed it back at her, after he was dressed once more, wanting her to not be without him completely, even if he couldn't offer himself fully, not yet, she couldn't do it.

Slip it off.

Leave it behind.

She would wear it, snuggle into it, slip it on herself, before heading out, so he could collect it once more, and yes, when he was around for a long, lazy afternoon, she might wash it, beat it, dry it in the brightest of suns and most picturesque spring days, but it was to no avail.

It was all always to no avail.

Because Laxus' coat stank of cigar smoke.

And Mirajane couldn't help, but to love it.

* * *

**So we've reached the end of the year (and the decade, somehow) and I thought I'd close it out with a week of Miraxus stuff. The short one is out of the way first, a palette cleanser, if you will. I got six more of these lined up for you guys each day, ending on New Years Eve, so let's get after it, huh? **


End file.
